


The end of all things

by millenniumfalcon



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, F/M, Historical References, I Made Myself Cry, I hope they won't go there with the series because i will cry and die, I'm Sorry, Just angst, Near Future, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:46:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7856923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millenniumfalcon/pseuds/millenniumfalcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is captured by the English Navy and he is imprisoned in Port Royal, waiting for his death sentence to be carried out.<br/>The day of the execution, Anne is there amidst the crowd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The end of all things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starscollision](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscollision/gifts).



> Historically, Jack Rackham died on 16 November 1720 in Gallows Point (Port Royal) and I will never stop crying about it.  
> Which is why I wrote this self-indulgent angsty little thing. Literally making myself cry and oh god now I am so sad.  
> The title is from "The end of all things" by Panic! At The Disco, which I think is absolutely perfect for Jack and Anne, and also perfect in general. 
> 
> This fic is for [Jo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starscollision) because she inadvertently prompted me to write it - I'm sorry luv, please don't stab me to death with chopsticks.

 The day Jack Rackham is led to the gallows is a bleak and cold one. Grey clouds move fast across the sky, spurred by violent blows of an unforgiving northern wind.

He has never been to Port Royal before: no pirate goes there, not if they care about staying alive and keeping their eyes from being eaten by crows. Now that he finally sees it, he finds it lacking. Where is the grand testimony of England's ruling over the world? A merely casual garrison, a rubble of men which no uniform could make more refined, more corageous, more intelligent or anything like that. It is disheartening, being in these men's power. And yet this is how it is going to end: on a strange island, engulfed and transfigured by English brutality and tyranny. He has heard stories of a time when Port Royal and the whole island were a different kind of place - but that was before he ever set foot on any Caribbean islan, before he was even born. A free place, born of savage needs and honest desires - but there would be no place for such inclinations in the new world they were building. Or rather, in their kind of world they were imposing on men who wanted only to be free.

Damn, he had spent too much time with Flint, he had started thinking like him.

And Charles.

Charles had placed freedom above anything else, because he knew what it was like not to have it at all.

Charles would not like to see him bound and doomed in English hands, a silent and unconsequential hanging that would serve no purprose whatsoever. It would not start a riot, like Charles's death had. It would have no meaning, it would only be one amongst many. Too many. Nameless, lost, forgotten: that was the destiny for the majority of pirates. And that would be his destiny, too.

He has no illusion about it: no one will remember his name. All the dreams he once had - the legacy, the fame, the respect with which his name would one day be uttered - all of that is lost, it has vanished from his mind forever.

He has no illusions: this is the last act for him, and his name will be as memorable as if it were written in water.

He is violently pushed out of his reverie when a heavy hand grabs his shoulder and pulls him up. He knows what is happening, even as his soul floating like driftwood in the midst of a vague confusion. He is pulled and half-dragged out of the cell, out of the prison and on to the cart.

_It's time, then._

The white light filters through the clouds and burns his eyes, forcing him to squint hard. But he's not going to close them, he's not.

He is aware that a small but loud crowd is gathering around him, following the cart and throwing insults and garbage in his direction. But all the same, in his mind there is only an eerie quiet, silence that stretches and covers all sounds. The slurs of the crowd are muffled and indistinct to his ears.

He barely registers it, when the cart stops and he is unceremoniously made to get off of it.

He feels himself being roughly pushed forward.

Nothing feels real.

Does he really want to go like this?

No, of course not.

He doesn't want to go.

But there is not much to be done about that, at this point.

He climbs the wooden steps, his feet feel strangely light and foreign.

He finally lifts his eyes and he faces the crowd: blotchy faces, excited with the promise of death and suffering to be displayed before them. A grand show, human life ending in front of their bright-eyed greed.

He's going to be a spectacle to pass the time and fuel the chatter in the market place for half a day, and the thought makes him feel sick. He pushes it aside, searching through the crowd instead.

It doesn't take long to spot her. She's standing in a corner, slightly removed from the rest of the crowd, lurking in the half-shadows but still perfectly visible to him.

Her flaming red hair had been too much of a telltale detail, so she'd cut it. She's dressed like a man, as always: she looks like a young sailor, a boy on his first long journey.

He knew she would come.

She's looking straight at him, fire burning in her eyes.

He looks back.

He knows that she has come here with the intent of saving him. But she's late and she knows it. There is no way of getting out of this, now.

He sees the struggle on her face, painful and desperate.

He closes his eyes for a moment and inhales deeply. When he opens them again, she's still looking at him, but now he's sure: she understands.

Even from a distance, he can see the faint glint of a tear in the corner of her eye, shining like a delicate jewel.

He breathes again, and again, hardly blinking, because her face is the last thing he wants to see and the only thing he wants to remember from this life.

Somewhere, the crowd keeps shouting and cheering for his death, insults rolling off their tongues with every breath.

But he hears nothing of it. Her eyes are the only thing that's real, today. The only thing that holds any meaning.

Distantly, he is aware of a voice enunciating his full name and the list of his crimes. 

He rolls his eyes, a sliver of his humor resurfacing. How unnecessarily pompous can they get, honestly.

Bad taste is always unforgivable.

The string of words merge together in a meaningless fashion, until his brain vaguely notices that he is being addressed directly.

"Any last words?", he's asked as the noose is curtly passed around his neck.

He feels the weight of the rope on his skin, he feels like some part of him is already being choked to death.

He keeps his eyes in hers, unwaveringly.

He knows she will keep looking even when he can't do that anymore.

He straightens his shoulders as much as the restraints will let him, as he finds his voice and somehow manages not to quiver or falter.

"Stand tall, darling."

He sees her eyes light up, subtly and ever so slightly but more than enough to have warmth bloom in his chest.

He sees her lips part as if for a silent word. He doesn't need to hear it to know what she is saying. Something she never said, something she wouldn't say even now, if it weren't for the distance between them and the impossibility of him truly hearing her.

It was something she has never needed to say, anyway, because deep down he has always known.

He knows.

His lips curve up imperceptibly and his eyes are warm with a smile that is only for her, a smile that only she will see and only she will remember.

_Stand tall, darling._

If anyone can, it's her.

And then he feels himself fall.

 

Jack Rackham's neck snaps. The sound can be clearly heard through the cheering crowd. They all laugh and celebrate and then slowly they ebb away.

Alone in the shadows, Anne Bonny still looks at the body of her lover slightly swaying from the rope.

**Author's Note:**

> The line "his name will be as memorable as if it were written in water" was inspired by this line: _Here lies one whose name was writ in water_ , which is written on John Keats' grave. In my mind, there are such strong parallels between Jack Rackham and John Keats, as far as the whole legacy matter goes, which is making me at least ten times sadder. 
> 
> If you wanna punch me for being an angsty cry babe, you can find me at calicocaptain.tumblr.com


End file.
